The Last Romantic
by thegoffietwerb
Summary: Whilst most boys his age liked to pretend they were Obi Wan Kenobi or Han Solo- Harry preferred to imagine himself as Mr. Darcy. But then again, he had always been a little odd.
1. Chapter 1

I love the Vicar of Dibley. with the burning passion of a thousand suns.  
But this is the first fanfic I've ever written for it. It literally popped into my head at 2am.

**The Last Romantic ** _also entitled: How Harry came to Dibley._

* * *

He never did like Rochester. Or Heathcliff.  
Harry preferred Darcy, Thornton, Ferras, and even Pip.  
He was never the dark and brooding type. The Byronic antihero of his novels. He was Sir Percival, not King Arthur; whatever demons that always seemed to dwell beneath the surface of these greater men were not within Harry. He had no tragic childhood (excusing of course, the inevitable bullying that came with always having your nose in a book and your twin sister being your best friend), no long lost love, no tortured soul.  
Heathcliff – he just couldn't relate. Rochester – he seemed to take personal offense to the man locking his wife away; mad or not.  
Rosie always teased him. While other little boys his age were trying to decide whether they wanted to be a Jedi Master or a Sith Lord; he seemed to dream of being the White Knight, or the dashing prince in a fairy-story. Fighting dragons for his lady's favour. His mother and father rolled their eyes and assumed it was just a phase.

He was fond (overly perhaps) of the 'Grand Romantic Gesture'. Of rushed and desperate confessions of love, passion undying and promises. His first 'Grand Romantic Gesture' was aged 13, his first real crush on one of his sister's friends. It had been the usual passing of notes and a stolen kiss or two, until she had scoffed at a lovenote he'd given her that had quoted "_Gone with the Wind_". Telling him how stupid it sounded and why did he even read those books weren't they for women and why couldn't he just try and cop a feel like a normal lad. He'd cried on Rosie's shoulder for an hour or two as she patted his back. Oh Harry.

He loved too deeply and too quickly. Head over heels Harry, as his mother fondly called him. Never stopping to think if this girl would break his heart too, because she might be The One this time (she never was though, in the end). The Grand Romantic Gesture's got a little grander as he got older, as his library became bigger. His last great love living with him in his flat in London, he had given away his heart for what he thought was the last time, only to have her shatter it again when she found her Drummel and left him there.  
This time, Harry was adamant that things would change. Maybe he should consider moving away from the White Knight to a less wholesome character? Were the Grand Romantic Gesture's really what women wanted – his lovenotes, and cuttings from favourite novels, surprises and promises and kisses in the rain ("fucking hell Harry, now my hair is ruined!") – was his method too old fashioned and unrealistic? His life too shaped by the gentlemen in the books he read? His girlfriend's past had either loved or hated it but he had always seemed to attract women who (as he later discovered) never quite loved him back as fervently as he had loved them. So he tried for a little while, to become the boring accountant everyone expected of him.

And it came to him, in a flash of divine light one Thursday night a few years later - what he wanted. What he really truly wanted. To be loved with as much ferocity and joy as he loved, regardless of his making a tit of himself by shouting his adoration into a crowded street or trying to write a poem that would never quite be Shakespeare. He wanted the love-at-first-sight-punch-you-in-the-gut romance his 12 year old self had fawned over in the library, which his teenaged self had tried so hard to manufacture. He wasn't going to get it here, now, as this dull creature he'd become. He didn't need to change himself. But Harry did, however, need a change. London was a city of cynics. It was wearing him down, making him cold and hopeless.  
Harry phoned his sister up and she gave him her blessing.

He looked online at houses for sale, and settled in the end for a house in a village that seemed to be lifted directly from an Austin or Hardy novel.  
Dibley.  
Sounded quite nice, really.

* * *

**So yeah.  
He always came across as a hopeless old fashioned romantic to me. But thats what Geraldine deserved really.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

_So I had so much fun with the first oneshot I wanted to do another._

**Part 2 - The Townie Bastard**

* * *

He was trying to figure out where to put the kettle when there was a knock at the door.  
He blinked, standing for a moment as his brain connected the dots.  
Knock at door = visitor.  
He put the kettle down hastily upon a box of books and rushed to the front door; his first day in his new home and he had a visitor. Sure the bloke in the moving van had given him a funny look when he'd asked what the village was like and wished him luck as he'd left, but hell. This was more visitors then he'd ever had in London.

Harry had finally moved to Dibley. It was simple enough; he'd figured it all out. Work from home during the week and head back to London and visit the family at the weekends. Bother Rose and her husband. This would be his fresh start. His chance to escape the drab and dreary little life he'd been leading. Trudging through, slowly and quietly forgetting about and letting go of his quaint dreams of a happily ever after – firework harlequin Austen romance. Head over heels Harry had been fading away.  
But if the lush green fields and sunny market square of the rural little village of Dibley were anything to go by, he figured this was just the place to… well… blossom, really.

But first, the door.  
There were hushed voices coming from outside. As the door swung open he was greeted by two women.  
Two very different looking women, both with those goofy smiles women often wore around him but he could never quite figure out. One was tall and skinny, straw blonde hair and glasses with the most amazing (or horrendous? He couldn't quite decide) pink anorak.  
The other…  
He found his voice, "Oh Hello!" and was met with a little feminine chorus of hellos.  
He'd better invite them in.

"Sorry it's a bit of a mess, my last place was bigger so it's going to be a squeeze fitting it all in"  
After he moved the chair, he turned to his guests all the while chattering away. Had he really been so starved of company in London?  
"If you see anything you like, just take it – I'll never know"  
"Really?" the blonde sounded how she looked. Squeaky and bright.  
"No not really!" Her companion sounded long-suffering. He could see her better in the light now and oh she was glorious. Dark haired and dark eyed; a gleeful brightness to them.

"Oh I'm Harry. Sorry. All over the shop today." That's it Harry just keep on wittering.  
"I'm Geraldine, I just live down the lane." She smiled wider and he lost his breath a little. "Excellent."  
"And I'm Alice." He tore his eyes away from Geraldine's face to shake her companion's hand. "Splendid."  
Stop staring. Stoppit.

So they chatted a little. Harry trying to seem at least vaguely interesting (just don't tell them you're an accountant) all the while with a strange sensation stirring in the pit of his stomach as he listened to Geraldine talk and humour Alice.  
"It's a sort of modern mystery thriller. You see someone and we don't know who – has done a poo on the head of the little mole."

He'd then asked Geraldine about her favourite books.

"I love Jane Austen, "said Geraldine, eyes twinkling, "I think Sense and Sensibility is my favourite. Well," she continued and he moved in a little closer, watching her face light up, that fluttering feeling only getting stronger, "any of the one's where the girl gets swept off her feet by a handsome stranger after a couple of juicy fist fights and a terrible misunderstanding."  
She giggled a little and there it was. That feeling in his gut that he'd missed for god knew how many years. Like a punch in the face, a wave of warmth and light and Shakespeare hit him as this tiny, chubby woman smiled up at him.  
"That ever happen to you round here?" He asked, a little too gruffly, "any handsome strangers sweep you off your feet?"  
"No not yet."  
"Well…there you go…"  
He had to shake his head to regain his train of thoughts. Stop staring you absolute muppet.  
But oh, oh it was far too late and he could just see the Grand Romantic Gestures come unbidden to his mind. Don't be stupid Harry. Don't do this to yourself again. But her voice was like honey and so full of benevolence. And then she gave him a look so sweet, or looked so horrified for having called him a "townie bastard" (oh good, so he was making friends already then) that he had to stifle a laugh. Stifle and push down that burning feeling of the fireworks going off in his heart, as his head internally sighed and reigned itself to the inevitable.

After they'd both finished calling him a bastard and left, he wandered rather aimlessly back into his semi-unpacked kitchen and leaned across the sink, staring out of the window into the darkness. He could see the church from there, towering about the now silent little village. He'd left London to truly live. To get what he'd always wanted. His freshly dumped 13 year old self grinned back at him from the dark glass. Head over heels Harry, back again.  
"Bugger."  
Now where was that bloody kettle?

***  
In the years that followed, Harry would forever fondly recall what he had later realised was the exact moment he had fallen in love with his wife. She had looked at him with embarrassment and laughter in her eyes and said with the tilt of her head,

"It's about a poo."


End file.
